"No, not dead--not so bad as that--but ill, I confess," said Roger, kindly, quite melted by what seemed to him an overflowing of natural feeling; "only ill; don't look so alarmed--not even seriously or alarmingly ill, so far as Colonel Sutherland says. Pray, read the letter yourself."
Horace took the letter mechanically, and sat down again, holding it up before his face. He could not see the writing, which swam and floated in variable lines before him. He had enough to do to control himself, that nobody might see the wild tremor, exultation, horror, which possessed him. And yet what did it mean?--not dead, but ill! His potion, surely must have done better work. Not dead, only ill? The words came to his very lips unaware. What did it mean?
"Take some wine, Mr. Scarsdale; you look quite ill. Nay, nay, perhaps it isn't anything to be anxious about," said Mrs. Stenhouse, stealing round the table with the charitable cordial to Horace's elbow. "How you did comfort me, to be sure, the other night about Edmund!--and that came true. Drink this to give you back your colour, and don't take on so; I hope your father will be spared to so good a son!"
"What do you mean?" cried Horace, hoarsely; "do you mean to taunt me?--as good a son as he was a father! Thank you, thank you! I was startled. I'm going off for Marchmain; good-bye."
He crushed up the letter in his hand, and went away hurriedly; but almost before they had begun to wonder and talk about him, came back and thrust his head in at the door.
"Musgrave," said Horace, in a broken voice, "when I come back, if--if I come back--I'll tell you something to your benefit. I say it freely, without any man asking me--I promise you I will."
With this mysterious intimation he disappeared once more, going out from among them upon his dismal way, leaving a strange suggestion of evil in everybody's mind. Great misery, it was clear enough, was in this sudden intimation. Was it the agonized apprehension of love fearing death?--what was it?--for of all the unlikely things in the world, that little company could have guessed at anything sooner than the truth.
"But I believe he expects to come into a great deal of money when his father dies," said Amelia; "not a common fortune--such a deal! I daresay that was why he looked so strange when he went away."